


this has happened before

by isoldewas



Category: Jane the Virgin (TV)
Genre: F/M, I didn't expect this either, spoilers for s05e01, writing a paragraph on masturbation in the shower was always a dream of mine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 12:36:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18282500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isoldewas/pseuds/isoldewas
Summary: He watches raw footage, uncut, of the past life she won’t stop bringing up. He watches them fold towels, and buy oranges, and paint a wall a lighter shade of pink. He watches himself say things he couldn’t possibly mean now: I love you, I’ll handle this, trust me.or, alternativelyShe can be quick with her forgiveness; and quicker yet with her hands.(okay, i know it’s not a very good summary but i’m sleepy)





	this has happened before

**Author's Note:**

> i swear i was team Rafael ??
> 
> update: after that creepy fishing non-date i do feel like saying that this was written two days after the s05 premiere. when all i had was that beard and a general lack of understanding in his eyes.

_"You're living for nothing now. I hope you're keeping some kind of record.”_ -famous blue raincoat, l. cohen

_"I can't live up to the legacy of a man who died for you."_ -6.13 of ouat

*****

He doesn’t know her.

She talks a lot, quick and breathless by the end of it. She makes a point of not looking at him while helping him, a Michael tour with no eye contact, like she wants him to do it on his own. _Find an answer, you used to be a detective, investigate, solve this, know me,_ everything about her screams “know me.”

 _Recognize this, learn that. Let’s go. It’s not that complicated, I’m feeding you all the clues,_ which she is. Everything about her is one big I-loved-you-and-you-can’t-concentrate-hard-enough-to-remember-a-freaking-sandwich.

She’s very frustrating. Intense and determined to make him into a Michael. Instead of whatever this is.

He watches raw footage, uncut, of the past life she won’t stop bringing up. He watches them fold towels, and buy oranges, and paint a wall a lighter shade of pink. He watches them in various locations, in a span of a day Jane and a version of him on the screen go from Christmas to birthdays to Thanksgiving. He watches himself say things he couldn’t possibly mean now: I love you, I’ll handle this, trust me.

Jason watches Jane on tape, captured at twenty-something frames per second, and he knows that because Rogelio-de-la-Vega sat down with him and explained what the basis to his craft is all about. And then there is Jane in photos, fixed in time, forever mid-breath and on some of them she is looking away from the camera and to him, and Jason’s breath catches when he sees it the first time, and to be fair, the sixteenth time too: that blind adoration and peace and trust between them.

And he tries to tell her that, but it’s particularly hard to articulate when he wants to the most: when they’ve settled into an uncomfortable heavy silence once again. When she stands up from the couch to collect the photos skittered around the coffee table, but really, to put some space between them. 

It’s a _you’re not even trying,_ over and over again. She doesn’t have to say anything.

And he thinks, _sure, let’s, I’d love to. I’d love to know you too._

But he doesn’t. All he can do is watch her watching him, and watch from a middle distance as it sparks nothing in him. When Rafael brought him to the studio he’d promised he’ll get it when he sees her. And Jason almost does, at times. At times, still unconvinced by his performance, Jane smiles to herself, shakes her head, and she looks at him all surely-now-you’ll-stop-playing-dumb. _You’ve got me, it’s all a prank, a dream, an illusion,_ he’d say. Which, frankly, again, he’d love to.

And, you know, maybe it’s the memories kicking in, but he reads easily into her expressions. Then again, she is a heart-on-her-sleeve type. And as the days turn into weeks she discards with pretence and politeness and decorum and common decency.

Because time after time, again and again, she has to learn: this is who he is now. For now.

And she turns sad and closed off, all despite herself, that one he learns quickly. Really, she wouldn’t dare jeopardise it: he obviously matters to her a lot, correction, Michael matters to her an awful lot, and she just doesn’t have the energy to count Jason in too.

So he’d thought he’d at least get something out of it. Dinners and stuff, his stuff, a sweater, a mug. A mug that breaks against the white tiles of his studio apartment. And the sweater, well, he gives it back to Jane. It doesn’t fit him: he used to be leaner. And why would he want it anyway, it’s got holes and stains and loose threads. He’s got enough of those, enough clothes, enough.

And then there is a small matter of him accidentally clicking right in the middle of the timeline of their so clearly impromptu sex tape. Which he immediately paused and went out for a smoke. And then he came back and got into the shower and again, twenty-something frames, just a hundred of those in three to four seconds it took him to stop the playback, but he’s got a general idea and it all comes crashing down on him.

How, to her, there is this inconceivable pull to him. A sway he’d never had in all the four years he remembers. It feels like magic, and just like that, it’s powerful and dangerous and dizzying. A month in and she’s on the brink of maybe breaking up with the father of her kid.

And he thinks about that pull, and wonders whether it works both ways, whether it used to. And then he doesn’t have to wonder anymore as the very thought of her makes him bite down a groan, and he finds himself jerking off to what could easily be a memory of his married life.

So naturally, after that he changes gears. He angles his head and he looks at her for a while. And by some unknown force of attraction, these little concessions lead to these drastic leaps in her behaviour. 

She starts leaning into him. She brushes against him as she leaves the room and he’s right there in the doorway, unwilling to move. And you could say it’s because she moves at such a pace, and to him, it’s all new surroundings and you could say, he was in her way. But it feels more and more like he’s the whole point.

She is thriving on their proximity, on the subtle changes in his own behaviour he only ever notices after her breath catches. As he places a careful hand on her arm, as his knee touches hers on the couch, as he brings her the damn sweater and she says thank you, near breaking down— Her breath catches and he’d done it again. Caught her off guard by doing exactly what she wants of him.

And then, as the most ill-fitting conclusion to the lazy build up, instead of jumping his bones she tells her kid about their whole situation.

By the time he catches on, Jane’s already dead-set on introducing Jason to this dark-haired child who doesn’t even look like Jane. And he can’t help his surprise when the child leaps into his arms, excited and intense and there it is, he is a spitting image of Jane right about now. And Jason can’t help it: he tenses up and can’t bring himself to hug back, can’t even say “Hello,” can’t use words like “excited” or “nice” or “meet,” because those would be lies. And Jane's told him she would bring the kid, and he couldn’t even find appropriate words to form a request to delay, no chance he’s going to find the words now, facing the child.

The very same evening she shows up at the studio apartment Patricia’s leased for him: two blocks from the police station, all in the hope that somehow, somewhere, he’ll be himself again. Jane is furious.

The fight starts well before she crosses the threshold. It could be considered a screaming match, she’s certainly doing her part right, but Jason interrupts her. It’s a half-assed apology he doesn’t even mean anymore. He says words that sound and feel and _are_ rehearsed, and if she pays enough attention she could see he picks up the pace. He’s said it before.

He swears he was almost happier in Montana. With no past and, let’s face it, not a whole lot of future, a dog, a horse, a simple life. And here we have a big city and all these places and all these things that are supposed to be meaningful but they are just exponentially frustrating, and he grows tired of not recognising.

And here we have Jane who is— a lot. She is all smiles and laughs and disappointment, god, so much disappointment. She is a mother and a daughter and a widow and a wife, again, correction, his wife. She is pretty and strong and sad and bright and here.

And he doesn’t want all this, certainly not all of this, he isn’t sure he even wants some, and who said he needs to come back and fill the space he’d left when he died. For fuck’s sake, he isn’t even sure he likes kids. But then, she doesn’t ask him any of that.

She ignores, moves right past and straight to the point.

The point being, she can be quick with her forgiveness; and quicker yet with her hands.

She waits long enough as to be sure he’d have voiced a complaint by now, if he had any. And then her hands are on his hips and her chest is against his and he leans into her until she brings a hand around his neck and her mouth collides with his.

Jane’s a great kisser, but it still feels like a punch. Maybe because she’s still furious with him, her touch bordering on violent, her nails scratching at his skin. 

She moves desperately against him, closes her eyes and undoes the buttons on his shirt, her fingers landing in the exact right places, and of course she can do that, she’s got the advantage of remembering. He’s stuck with improvising.

Everything about her relaxes into him and tenses up again as he runs his hand down her back. It’s impossible not to notice the tears in the corners of her eyes, as he pushes her into the bed, because again, she’s got that way-too-easy-to-read face. 

Jason wants to push her against the wall, doesn’t want to bother with getting them out of these clothes, he just wants to be over with this tension already, this unbearable giant thing between them starting with AM and ending with NESIA.

He pushes up her skirt, and then she’s sliding his shirt down his arms and he can’t touch her for a second. And he realises, in a span of a moment, that he wants what he can get. He wants something that’s right there for the taking and he wonders whether it makes him a terrible person, a bad guy, that he wants it for all the wrong reasons.

His fingers push against her panties, and she makes a sound, so many sounds, it’s a sensory overload, that’s what it is. Jane’s wet, because of him, but then— not really. She turns around and her ass is pressed against him, and he doesn’t think she should do that. Because, and it’s only coming to him now— she doesn’t know who he is. She has no idea what he’s done. 

Yes, what has always mattered the most in this relationship is the fact that Jason doesn’t remember what Jane knows, but that’s old news. What’s more concerning now: she knows nothing about what amounts to the entirety of his life experience. He could have killed, for all she knows. Actually, for all he knows, he might have.

And maybe instead of waiting for him to come back, she should’ve been learning who he is now. And he can see her effort, the very opposite of willful blindness, where she notices every one of his missteps, every single thing that isn’t Michael. But she fails to take him into account, Jason as a fully formed persona and not as the not-quite-Michael-yet-emphasis-on-yet. Maybe she’s right, though. When Rafael came calling, he’d left his life behind instantly, and even he knows you’re not supposed to be able to move on that fast.

He still wishes Jane could allow for subtlety. But she’s too busy with her own disaster of a heart. He wants her, but she, she needs this. Him. They are off to a rough start.

He pushes two fingers inside her, angry, lost, and Jane moans, and she bites down on her lip and her fingers flex on his arms. She’s still careful though, _show off,_ he thinks. Like she could possibly remember all the angles, the edges, the threshold; four years after the last time— It hits him then that these hands have touched her before, he’d done this already. It’s almost impossible to imagine that this too was erased by whatever catastrophe he’s been through. He gets why she’s still struggling to make peace with it. He didn’t just forget her. He forgot _everything._ And before meeting Jane he couldn’t even conceive of a life that could contain this much. To think, it was his. To think, here at least is an empty space he could fill. 

Jane unbuckles his belt and he awkwardly gets out of his trousers while climbing on the bed. His fingers trace lines from her stomach to her bra to the hook of the bra as she straddles him.

She moves on top of him, her chest pressed against his, her hands tracing the muscles of his arms.

He can’t remember her name for a second there. It happens when she keeps saying “Michael” on repeat and he doesn’t know then who Michael is either. And he hates Michael for having it so easy. For having everything, and so much of it. So much that just looking like him grants him all this. 

Her shoulder’s digging uncomfortably into his chest and it’s all he’s ever wanted: her not being perfect. Her not knowing something about him. How she’s the source of his discomfort right now. She has no idea how much pain she’s causing.

He is so angry.

He pushes her thighs further apart, like he has any right to, and she lets him, like, yeah, he does. 

“Jane,” he hears himself say. It scratches at his throat, it burns and it makes him halt and take a breath because he remembers wanting to repay her for all her _Michaels_ with _Mams_ of his own, and how he simply— forgot.

Her eyes fly open and she searches his face for recognition, for any sign that she had been right all along in repeating his name like it’s a demented spiritual séance.

He shakes his head no, and briefly considers begging her to stop hoping for a while. _Not now, it’s not like it’s going to happen now, would it, stop it, stop seeing him, look at me,_ but _look at me_ just means _see him, see the man you buried;_ and it’s a vicious cycle; and in that moment Jason just feels lost.

She holds on to him, the sheer strength of her surprising to him. And he just wants so badly for it to feel familiar.

But no. And the next time, if they’re ever there, he will have had this already, point being, now is his only fucking chance. He searches for any trace of this-has-happened-before, be it a gesture or a move or a remnant of a feeling he can’t place.

But it’s just new all around.

And he grabs at her thighs, leaving bruises and he knows, somewhere, he knows she isn’t supposed to be touched like that. She’s radiating this terrible bright light, a freaking force field of gentleness and passion and life, and he’s just hanging on to her for dear life. _Find me. Bring me back._

She doesn’t. She’s trembling in his arms as she comes, and her eyes are closed and she whispers something he can’t hear but has learned to recognize by the shape of her mouth alone. 

_Mi-chael._


End file.
